Thursday, May 16, 2013

The F Word

And it’s not even what I’ve written about before in many
ways – feminism. Although it is in some ways.

It’s about self esteem. It’s about being self conscious.
It’s about life, and love, and what I wore.

It’s about being … fat.

I had been thinking about writing this even before the
latest skirmish in the fat wars. Not the "obesity” wars, which are all about keeping our children healthy, Michelle
Obama, the war on food insecurity and food deserts, economic privilege and
social gaps – all guised in the mantra that we are trying to be more healthy as
a nation.

This is what Abercrombie CEO Mark Jeffries has said about
his stores: “We go after the cool
kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a
lot of friends. A lot of people don’t belong [in our clothes], and they can’t
belong.”

In other words, no one fat. No one who
needs a Large or, god forbid, and Extra Large size. You will not find them at
Abercrombie. He has been quoted as saying that he doesn't want fat chicks shopping in his store. Really.

Besides the fact that the few times I
have been in one of those stores I have wanted to run out screaming, because
the music is so loud and they pump perfume thoughout and they are clearly not
targeted at anyone “old” either (with which I’m fine), I find his remarks so
insidious and harmful, I don’t know where to begin.

Should stores target to particular
markets? Yes. Should they know their audience? Yes (see “old” above.) Should
marketers use ploys to direct the traffic they want in their stores and on
their websites? Sure, go ahead. I
understand that this is a business model that works, and I live in a capitalist
country.

But to outwardly (and inwardly, because
apparently working in one of these bastions of skinny-dom is no picnic either)
affirm that you don’t want fat people in your store smacks of rank bullying and
discrimination. It is hurtful. It is ugly.
Remove the word “fat” and insert an ethnic group into that statement. It is beyond the pale.

I have been thinking about this issue a
great deal lately, as I have crossed over to the age and time in a woman’s life
when losing a pound has become a monumental task. I had the wonder and delight of losing 20
pounds pretty easily a couple of years ago, and sure enough, they crept back
on, plus five. And now I’m struggling more mightily than I ever have before.

I am 30 pounds overweight (which is
generous – my doctor would argue for 40.) My BMI reads as borderline obese. My
mother always said I carried my extra weight well, and I still do, (and of
course there’s Spanx) but nevertheless, you can tell. I am round, I am busty,
and I am, for all intents and purposes in today’s society, fat. Clothes don’t
fit me properly, especially jeans, as my weight sits in my middle. I am at the
extreme large end of women’s sizes. I have embarrassing cleavage, which is
nearly impossible to cover up. And the pounds just keep creeping on.

I think about my weight every minute of
every day. I remember hearing that men think about sex about that often, and I
laughed, not believing that anyone’s brain could be so stuffed with one
thought. But the simple fact is, mine is as well, just a more depressing
subject. I can’t shake it. It colors everything I do. I’m reminded of it when I
get dressed, when I work out, when I walk down the street, when I think about
meals for me and my family, and when I go to bed.

Insecurity about my body started early.
I was a somewhat tall and slender but well-developed young teen. Boys snickered
and jeered. Men wolf called on the street. My mother, all of 95-pounds soaking
wet, would wonder aloud whether I was going to be “big.” Suddenly, my body was
no longer my own – it was up for scrutiny, commentary, notice, all in the guise
of flattery (except for my mother), but all it did was make me embarrassed and
want to hide it.

I wore flowy hippie clothes and
overalls back then.

Today, the social opprobrium around
being heavy is fierce, and styles are less forgiving. There are days when I
feel like I shouldn’t be allowed outside – which I know is irrational, but I
cannot help but feel society’s eyes still watching, and now, with condemnation
rather than approval. It is indeed a heavy load to bear.

I know that there are people who are
heavier than I am, who feel much more comfortable in their skin. And I know
that there are people who are smaller who feel big and ugly. The media
compounds our insecurities a hundred fold, most especially when clothing
sellers allow hurtful and idiotic thinking to guide their sales.

Today, as a woman in middle age, I know
a few more tricks to hide behind. The fact is, better-shaped clothing is a
better fit. Vee and scoop necks train the eyes upward to neck and face. No turtlenecks for me. High heels also help – I look taller, feel more powerful and stronger.

Black tights are good. So are black
pants, black skirts and black tops. And black jackets. Dark grey and chocolate
brown work too, but honestly, not as well.

Forget summer white t-shirts, the
staple of my youth.

And forget photographs – I despise the
way I look with yet another 10 pounds added to my frame and my chin.

I am miserable, thinking about my
weight incessantly. And yet, it is SUCH hard work losing it. It takes
discipline. It takes the elimination of a life-long sweet tooth. It takes
intense concentration on nothing but food, and your intake, and then ignoring
your hunger pangs and your desires, and that just seems so unfair. I have work
to do, children to raise, a life to live. The energy it takes to lose weight is
so enormous, and I want to do other things.

I work out regularly. I make and serve
healthy meals to my family. I eat salads. I eat kale. I like vegetables and
fruit. Just not as much as I like chocolate. So I eat both.

Life at the upper end of the size chart
is hard. And in today’s world, with fat-ism the latest “ism” in acceptable
ostracization techniques, one can’t help but think about it 24-hours-a day. You
always wonder if that person in the elevator who sees you with your
mid-afternoon M&Ms is thinking, she really doesn’t need those.

And of course I don’t. But need and
want are different things. And it is difficult to change habits, no matter how
much bio-feedback you do and how much psychotherapy you have and how much you
pay to Weight Watchers for their mobile app.

So when the bullying starts with an
idiot like Jeffries, my dander gets up. It’s bad enough I’m self-flagellating,
but when a grown man thinks it’s ok to make teenage girls think they’re not
worthy of his clothing, I have to act.

First thing is to make sure my daughter
knows about his ugly words and hideous tactics. Then think about whether we get
rid of what we already have in her closet, or just boycott (girlcott?) the
store.

Then I need to think about my own
neuroses around this issue. I hate wasting so much brain power worrying about
my weight all the time. I want to fit into my clothes comfortably and
reasonably, and be healthy and fit and able to take care of myself and my family
for a long time to come. I don’t need to be an Abercrombie-sized micro-human,
just normal and healthy and happy.

So maybe that’s the answer. Normal,
happy, healthy. Stop weighing myself every single morning, letting the numbers
dictate my mood. Start eating less on the sweet end of things, and try to make
the greens outbalance the fats. Not a diet. Not an obsession.

I’ll check in with you soon about my
progress. For now, I have some social justice work around a certain store to
take care of.